


From the Perspective of the Walls

by HunterByDayWhovianByNight



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst and Tragedy, Brief Period-Typical Homophobia, Developing Relationship, Don't Like Don't Read, Emotional Hurt, Falling Out of Love, Hurt No Comfort, Like really OOC, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Out of Character, POV Outsider, Unconventional Format, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29235333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HunterByDayWhovianByNight/pseuds/HunterByDayWhovianByNight
Summary: "Eventually something you love is going to be taken away. And then you will fall to the floor crying. And then, however much later, it is finally happening to you: you’re falling to the floor crying thinking, 'I am falling to the floor crying,' but there’s an element of the ridiculous to it — you knew it would happen and, even worse, while you’re on the floor crying you look at the place where the wall meets the floor and you realize you didn’t paint it very well." ―Richard SikenThe walls of their apartment realized something Steve and Bucky didn't a long time ago.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	From the Perspective of the Walls

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This is something I wrote for my creative writing class, and is very, very different from the style and content which I usually write. I left a lot of things ambiguous and unsaid―mostly because the assignment was max 3 pages and you can't fit a bunch of detail into a self-contained, 3-page story. I've always wanted to write a piece like this, dwelling on unhealthiness and toxicity in relationships and how mundane, slow-moving break-ups can be. I also wanted to use an unconventional POV, so in this case it's the walls of the apartment "Steve" and "Bucky" share. 
> 
> Important information to know before you continue reading: I used Steve and Bucky as a model, but nothing could be more OOC than this fic. There's a lot going on emotionally and relationship-wise that is unresolved and not talked through. I don't think that Steve and Bucky would act like this if they were in a relationship. That being said, this fic deals a lot with my own anxieties about the mere idea of being in relationships, especially with friends I've had crushes on. This fic is gonna be really OOC, so again: don't like, don't read. This fic is also M just because the discussion of the relationship status as it crumbles is pretty heavy.
> 
> ~Hunter

This is not a love story. This is not a getting-together story. This is not a slice of life. This is not enemies or rivals to lovers. This is not even a narrative about healing and overcoming. This has no happy ending, unless you think that two people finally recognizing the fact that they are no good for each other is a happy ending. And maybe it is a happy ending in that regard, but we have watched these two people wear themselves down and we will have you know this: these two people knew that they were no good for each other, and did nothing about it.

* * *

In the early days, the blond one and the brunet one were madly in love. Not like they would tell each other that, though—they lived in a time where what they were wasn’t something good boys were. But still they lived together, as two bachelors, the blond one going to school and teaching the neighborhood kids how to read on the side in exchange for food or cash, and the brunet one working at the docks, using whatever money he got to help put the blond one through school. We heard about these things when they talked late at night in the kitchen. They didn’t have to use each other’s names, so we never learned them. Nobody but them came inside our walls, so names were moot. They could communicate wordlessly, asking for help or responding with nothing but a glance. We watched them move about in perfect sync, knowing exactly when to open cupboards or wash dishes. When they first moved in, we were surprised that they were not already together, what with the easy way they talked and moved around the rooms. Our previous tenants were once a young couple like them. 

These are the memories that they will access every time they think about where it all went wrong: Summer nights sitting on the fire escape drinking beers or whiskey (if they could afford it). Autumn afternoons making pies and cider on the stovetop. Winter mornings layering each other with more blankets before they leave for work or class. Spring days with the windows open and tidying up. The blond one typing away at his typewriter on the kitchen table for his classes, a pencil between his lips. The brunet one making dinner and humming a jazz song under his breath. Staring into each other’s eyes as the fireworks burst and crackle behind them in the summer and wishing they could kiss each other.

It should have been a sign to them that their relationship, when it became less platonic and more romantic, began in the middle of the coldest winter the city had seen in eighty years. The blond one was deathly ill. It began cold, sick, and desperate and would end the same way. On the eighth day of the blond one’s fever, the brunet one was certain that the blond one would die. In a moment of spontaneity, he clutched the blond one’s face, looked deep into his bright blue eyes, and said he loved him, always had and always will. The brunet one wanted the blond to know that in case he died that night. The blond one smiled a weak smile and replied that he’d always loved the brunet one, too, couldn’t he tell after all those years? And the couple cried and laughed in each other’s arms, unable to contain their joy. The brunet one slid into bed beside the blond one and held him all through the night. The blond one was well by the end of the next day and the brunet one’s bedroom goes unused.

* * *

We cannot pinpoint the exact moment where they began to go wrong. If there was infidelity, it didn’t happen here. But they didn’t have time for infidelity between the blond one’s teaching job and the brunet one’s family store. All we know is that after fifteen years of being in love, a war, and a financial crisis, things began to chill. Love tends to do that after a while. Gone were the days of sitting on the fire escape together and watching the fireworks in the summer and splurging on whiskey to celebrate. It’s sad, but they got too busy for each other. And we got the feeling that they hated the fact that they could never be open with their love. 

And of course, they have The Argument. All couples have The Argument. An offhand comment about the rent being due soon turned into an argument about their jobs and then a screaming match over the fragility of their living situation. The Argument made them come to the realization, albeit nonverbally, that if they left each other, then they would have nowhere to live. They couldn’t afford to let The Argument tear them apart because their lives were so entangled. Or maybe they felt obligated to make their relationship work because they didn’t know if they could find another man who was like them, that had gone through what they did. And besides, they thought, to leave each other over one argument was childish. They gave each other time and space with the hope that things would heal. 

The Argument, though, made their bed cold. Even though they were giving each other time and space, they still slept in the same bed. That was strange to us. If the other got up and left in the middle of night, they’d have never known. The brunet one wondered if he could reach out and touch the blond one as they drifted off. The blond one couldn’t tell if he still loved the brunet one or not. Some nights, they would accidentally meet eyes, stare at each other across their pillows, and think: _I still love you, come back to me, show me you love me still, too_ or _please let me touch you, I miss you, give me a sign_ but resigned themselves to the (mostly false) conclusion that the other wasn’t ready to talk or touch yet. Then they would roll to the other side, eyes facing the walls, and fall into dreamless sleeps. 

In those early days and nights after The Argument, they were deathly silent. They passed through our doorways into the kitchen, the living room, their bedroom, the bathroom, with few words and glances. The wordless interactions between them we thought were so romantic were simply that: wordless. They lost sight of each other. Maybe it would have been better, the brunet one selfishly thought, if he had never told the blond one he loved him and let him die. The blond wished he had never confessed his love.

They softened to each other, just slightly, when they talked about renewing the lease. They assumed the other wanted to stay, which is why they agreed to renew. No frills, no fuss. We were shocked, we wanted to tell them to stop, to just leave each other and make the best of it. But we heard them say there was no harm in staying here another year, they had been in a relationship for nearly sixteen of them. What went unspoken was the hope that with a renewal of the lease, there would be a renewal of their private vows. But the hope didn’t last long, because nothing does.

The brunet one reached out for the blond one on the night of their (uncelebrated) anniversary, six months after they decided to give each other space. But the blond one pulled away. He had become so used to not being touched that just the feeling of the brunet one’s fingers on his arm was enough to make him recoil. The brunet one was unsurprised of the reaction. And in a moment that we never expected after so many months of complacency, the blond one got out of the bed without a word and walked in complete silence to the untouched second bedroom they used for storage. He laid down, pulled the thin covers over his shoulders, and felt the cold air settle around him. The brunet did not cry—he was just glad he had an answer on where he and the blond one stood now. 

But sleeping alone solved nothing. It only made them both realize, far too late, that sleeping alone felt exactly the same as sleeping beside each other.

**Author's Note:**

> me, in ya brain: kudos/comment on this fic  
> you: but why  
> me, in ya brain: you gotta
> 
> ~Hunter


End file.
